


business

by vampirecaligula



Series: historical mircea drabbles [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Historical, awful people being awful, god i love this trash ship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-03-14 20:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3424619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirecaligula/pseuds/vampirecaligula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the moment he lets down his guard, Hungary says, “Wallachia, there is something <i>eating</i> at me."</p><p>“Romania,” he corrects her without missing a beat, “and you may want to have that looked at.”</p><p>  <span class="small">a collection of drabbles detailing the relationship between romania and hungary over the years.  not necessarily chronological.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1920

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to [takanobaka](http://takanobaka.tumblr.com/), the light of my life and child of my soul, for editing.

**1920**

The pen in his hand drips black ink on hard wood as he bends over the final page of the document. He is not dressed in his usual finery; that isn’t the finest hat he owns, or the nicest suit.  She knows this because he wore his nicest suit to a peace talk not ten years ago when he signed away Bulgaria’s borders, and she had thought him a bastard to do so.

But now he looks like a farmer playing at going to town; she can see the seams down the side and the patched knee when he stands, and the ribbon on the hat has been replaced multiple times. It makes her sick to her stomach to look at – _this_ is the man who won his victory over her? A man who can’t even dress for the occasion? _This_ is what she lost to?

He looks her directly in the eye before he touches the pen to the paper, daring her to stop him, daring her to say something, and even if he isn’t smiling the corner of his mouth twitches in the tiniest smirk. He signs – he’s signing away her property, her people, her rights, and the treaty bears his name in letters larger than everyone else.

She sits on her hands to keep them from curling into fists and reminds herself to breathe.

When he passes by later, he purses his lips in mock sympathy. “Please, darling,” he says, “it’s just business.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the [Treaty of Trianon](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Trianon) was a 1920 agreement made after the first world war that set the new borders for the former austro-hungarian empire. a large chunk of hungarian land -- primarily transylvania -- was given to romania, expanding romanian territory into its ancestral lands and beyond.


	2. Soliloquy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a much-needed break from the intense political stewpot that is the aftermath of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for slut-shaming, homophobic, and maybe transphobic (?) insults. it’s the forties and these two are not nice people. written originally on request.
> 
> idk most of my favorite rohun comes from between 1914 and 1960 but the problem is that erzsi has a lot of issues at that point. 
> 
> if you think that pruhunro is my ot3 you are 100% correct

**1946 or 1947**

In her haste to get out, Erzsébet barrels through the wrong door and ends up somewhere off to the side of the building, in a narrow passage between this and the next. 

She doesn’t realize this until she’s already taken two steps and has to stagger to a halt to keep from hitting the brick wall only a few feet from her face, which, she notes bitterly, is an ironic metaphor for the last few decades.

The heavy door swings shut behind her without a sound; there’s a brief knock and a click as it lodges into place, and then it is just her, the narrow strip of gray sky, and the thick stench of cigarette smoke from somewhere to the right.

“Wrong door,” someone says, from the same direction.  Erzsi doesn’t need to look to know who it is. 

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, willing her headache to not get any worse.  She holds up a finger, and as she speaks, the effort to keep her voice civil is astronomical.  “Don’t,” she says curtly.

“I was only pointing out—“

“I said _don’t_ ,” she repeats.  “Don’t speak to me, don’t speak at all, don’t even breathe.  Just don’t.  God, my feet are killing me.”

She opens her eyes, giving a quick glance around the alley (and distinctly ignoring the figure leaning against the opposite wall) until she finds a crate within reasonable distance.  It’s uncomfortable when she sits on it, but it’s better than standing in these godforsaken high heels, which she twists off and tosses away as far as she possibly can.  They land in a puddle, officially ruined, but she can’t bring herself to care.

“Were you trying to miss me or has your aim gotten worse?  Because that was truly sad.”

“I don’t remember giving you permission to talk to me.”

“I don’t remember me ever paying attention to what you _allow_ me to do, ever,” he says mockingly, and brings the cigarette back to his lips.

“For the _love_ of God,” Erzsébet mutters, leaning back until her head and shoulders are supported by the wall, “You know what, I don’t care.  I don’t care.  Just leave me alone.”  She rubs her eyes, forgetting that she’d actually tried putting makeup on that morning, and grimaces when they burn. 

To his credit, Romania keeps to himself, finishing one cigarette and then starting another.  In the silence that follows, Erzsi is begrudgingly grateful for it.  He’s pissed her off more than usual in the last few days, making just enough obnoxious comments and postures to be irritating, but not enough to get him thrown out.  Even despite the war his clothing is high-quality; this, and the unusually benevolent treatment he’s gotten in regard to his acting out, make Erzsi suspect he’s done a lot more than simply kiss ass to get where he is now.

It won’t matter in the end, she reminds herself.  She’s been on the winning side of talks and reparations enough times to know that they are all essentially doomed, and even the ones who get off easy won’t really have gotten off at all.  He has to understand this, surely; he’s arrogant, and manipulative, but he has the same circles under his eyes that she does.  They’re in the same boat now.

Which makes her stomach curdle in shame and disgust.  After all these centuries, she’s back where she started – sitting in an alleyway with a second-rate swain, waiting for the latest empire to decide their fates.  At least in the fifteenth century she didn’t have to wear a pencil skirt.

“So what’s happening in there?”  Romania eventually says.  His voice doesn’t surprise her, exactly, but it does unpleasantly disrupt the silence.  He inclines his head toward the building, the end of his cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light.  “I want the latest gossip.  Who’s sold out to the Braginskies.  Who slipped falsified reports onto Kirkland’s desk.  Who’s sleeping with who.  The works.”

She blinks, dumbfounded.  “You’ve been at the same talks I have.”

He grins, eyebrows knitted together impishly.  “Not quite,” he says.

“What?”

“I slipped out hours ago.  Couldn’t take any more of that Jones kid and his tension with Braginsky.  I’ve probably decoded the secrets of the universe in the time I’ve had to myself, but I don’t want to brag.”

How had she not noticed?

Then again, she hadn’t noticed it yesterday when Latvia had had a breakdown in a back room with Estonia, and apparently everyone else _had_ – she was more off her game than she’d expected.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been out here smoking this whole time,” she muttered in a low voice, completely unsurprised.

“Not the _whole_ time,” he protested.  “Like I said, there was a bit of philosophizing.  A coffee break.  Maybe a soliloquy or three.” 

“How wonderful.”

“Time alone can be quite rejuvenating, I do recommend it in times of stress.” 

“Yeah, I know,” she retorts, scratching the bridge of her nose.  “Why the hell do you think I left?”

“What, is life too difficult without your precious husband to pick up the slack?”

"The divorce was over twenty years ago, dickhead, and if I hear you bring it up again I’ll tear your intestines out through your nose,” she threatens, and raises a fist.  She isn’t actually certain how serious she is about it.

He grimaces, leaning away from her.  “That would ruin our clothing.”

“Worth it if I don’t have to deal with you.”

“Yeah, you’d probably just ask Edelstein to send you new things anyway.”  His grimace contorts back into a smile as he waits for her to react.

Erzsi gives him a low glare.  “Are you calling my bluff?”

“Always,” he says sweetly.

“Didn’t work out so well for you last time you tried it,” she points out, and his smile gradually fades away.  “Did you ever get the dental bill covered on that?  Or did you just not bother?”

“Haven’t had the time,” he replies.

“You shouldn’t bother, I think it’s an improvement,” she goes on.  “Jones will contact you for _so_ many movie deals.  You might be able to give up on scrubbing floors, give your knees a break.  Not, of course, that anyone wants you with _those_ teeth—“

“You know, with your fascination for what goes on in my mouth, I wonder if you don’t have something specific you’d like me to do with it,” he says suggestively.

“Just what the hell are you insinuating?”

“You’re a broad with an excess of tension and I’m a man with a talent for relieving it; even a child could do that kind of math.”

She gags, deeply regretting her decision to exit the building through this particular door as a mild wave of nausea overtakes her.  “Oh, _eugh_ ,” she said; “you are disgusting and you’re a fag, you’re a disgusting fag.”

He ponders that for a second as he drops the butt of his cigarette on the pavement and grinds it beneath his heel.  “I don’t think I’m a fag if you’re a girl,” he says curtly.  “I mean, I could be wrong, but we should consider what it says about you in that case.”

“Oh, like it _matters_.”

“That’s just it, though, I think it does matter.  You did have that phase where you thought you were going to grow a penis.  We probably need outside input on this.”

“We don’t need any kind of input, what’s true is true.”  She chews on the inside of her cheek and stares, pointedly, down at her hands, which she twists in and out of her skirt, crinkling it in the process.

Romania doesn’t respond to her, or even look at her for that matter; when she glances at him out the corner of her eye, she sees him still leaning in his place against the wall, chewing on his fingernails with his snaggletooth.  In the silence that follows, the traffic carries over from a main street far in the distance, the sounds of cars honking and people shouting echoing like ghosts as the remnants of a breeze float over the late evening sky.  The sun will be down soon, and then they’ll have to leave; she ought to leave now if she wants to make it back to her place uninfringed, but the thought of moving is still more egregious than her company.

“Were you at the meeting earlier,” Romania says, his tone surprisingly quiet, “I think it was after noon? but it was the one where they were going to figure out what would happen to Prussia.  Did you go to that?”

Erzsi’s throat goes dry and she reminds herself to breathe.  “Of course I went,” she mutters.  “I don’t run away from responsibility.”

If he’d heard the dig, Romania ignores it.  “What did they decide?”

“I don’t want to talk about Gilbert.”

“I’m not asking about Gilbert—“

"You’re asking about Gilbert and you know it,” she retorts.  But then more quietly, she says, “Feliks is happy.  He’ll tell you all you want.”

Romania nods, for once his face devoid of any sneer or mocking countenance.  She’s told him all he needs to know.

Erzsébet takes a deep breath as her chest threatens to tighten on her, closes her eyes, and wills herself to calm down.  _Not here.  Not with_ him.  She relaxes each part of her body in turn; feet, legs, arms, and counts to twenty and back again in every language she knows, skipping it when she gets to German.  It helps a little.

“Are.  Are you alright?”

She has to do a double take to realize that yes, _Romania_ said that, and yes, he’s looking at her with what might be taken for concern were she anybody but herself.  His arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s bitten through his lower lip so that it glistens a little, but he’s still looking at her, and he did say that.

Erzsébet realizes she’s still clenching her fists when they begin to burn with pain.  Hastily she pries her fingers apart, stretching them to prevent it from happening again.  “I don’t want your pity,” she bites.

“I wasn’t offering it.”

“Still.”

“Just answer the question, Héderváry,” he insists, his eyes narrowed and serious.  She glares at him, reluctant to answer, and eventually, with difficulty, nods her head.

He scoffs with derision.  “I know _that’s_ a lie.  You’ve looked like shit for the last two years.”

“We just finished a world war, idiot.”

“It’s different from the war kind of shit,” he says.  His gaze wanders; he looks at the door, and at the ground, and at the sky and at his nails, anywhere to avoid looking at her, and then sighs and quickly goes on.  “I’m only going to say this once, so appreciate it: it’s . . . it’s okay.”  He meets her eyes again with a degree of sincerity he rarely has for her; her skin prickles with discomfort, and she looks away.  “This time it’s different.  It’s harder.  And I understand.  And I won’t tell anyone.”

She snaps her head back up, glaring at him; his gaze, to her surprise, doesn’t shake.  “Tell anyone what?” she demands.

He shrugs.  “Not sure.  But I won’t tell it.  It’ll stay here, between you and me.”

She’s not entirely sure what he means.  She doubts _he_ even knows what he means.  But at the same time, she suspects that they don’t need to.

Romania exhales deeply and rubs his mouth, then runs a hand through his hair, and produces a hat from out of nowhere that he sets on his head.  “Do you still want your shoes?” he asks.

The sun’s gone down far enough that Erzsi can barely see them anymore.  “No,” she decides.  “They’ll be full of mud and shit anyway.”

“Cigarette butts too, probably.”

“Come here often?”

“It’s not just me.  I had to kick Bulgaria out earlier.”  Erzsi grimaces at the thought.  As Romania approaches the door back into the building again, he looks at her and says, “I’m going to find something hot to eat, and then I’m going to get supremely drunk with whatever money I have left over.  Maybe not in that order.  Do you want to come?”

"God," she mutters.  " _Yes._ "


	3. 1880s

**Early 1880s**

The dance with her husband is interrupted before the violins have finished their final note. She doesn’t recognize him at first, it’s been so long – he’s taller than she is now, and his voice is oily in its newer, lower register. But those thin lips are pulled into his trademark smirk, and she would know those eyes anywhere.

“May I cut in?” he says with all the finesse in the world. He’s got new clothing, western clothing; French made and German bought. She had purchased a similar one for Austria last year.

“Absolutely not,” she begins to say, but before she can get the words out her husband—dear Austria, stupid Austria, with his rigid societal expectations – bows and murmurs _of course_. He doesn’t know enough about their history to understand her glare, doesn’t know her well enough to send him away regardless.

The next dance begins with one of Wallachia’s bony hands on the small of her back, the other clasped in hers; his hands are papery, rather cold. It’s been nearly a century since she saw him last but his grip is still the same.

“You look well this evening,” he remarks without really seeing her. She doesn’t know when he learned to dance, but he glides through the steps as if he’s been doing so his entire life. “I hadn’t thought you would clean up so nicely.”

“I could have said the same for you.”

“Is that a compliment I hear?”

“Only if you’ve gone deaf in your old age.”

Austria is now dancing with a young lady—Slovenia, perhaps—but she can tell from his expression that it is only out of politeness. They are neither of them particularly fond of the girl. She catches his eyes, widening her own in exasperation, and she thinks she sees his jaw harden in agreement.

“Found something more interesting than me?” Wallachia asks with some amusement.

“Always,” Hungary replies. She steps on his foot; he accuses her of being clumsy, and she grins. Her only regret is wearing shoes too light to cause any real damage.

He scowls at her, eyes hard, but the expression lasts less than a second. Then it is gone again, replaced by cool arrogance.

In that moment he lets down his guard, and she says, “Wallachia, there is something eating at me.”

“Romania,” he corrects her without missing a beat, “and you may want to have that looked at.”

“Figuratively, you imbecile.”

“Impressively large words, coming from you; civilization is doing you well.”

“Care to join it?”

“My darling Erzsebet, what does it look like I’m doing?” When she takes longer to respond than she would have liked, pursing her lips, he continues where they left off. “You said you were dying to ask me a question.”

“Right,” she remembers, after a pause. They turn, and when they face each other again, she asks, “What is it you did to the servants to make them let you in? I’ll be billing you for any hospital charges.”

His jaw drops in offense, though whether it is real or mock is impossible to tell. “I would _never_.”

“You weren’t invited,” she rapidly continues. “I made damn certain of it. So you must have done _something_.”

“I assumed my invitation had been lost in the mail,” he says; and frowns.

“I assure you, no such thing would happen on Habsburg soil.”

“Be that as it may”—skeptically, he waves his free hand—“you may not have invited me, but you did invite someone else, and he happened to need a guest.”  Wallachia looks at someone over her head; she turns, and near the drinks—because of course he would never dance sober, of _course_ —stands a man with snow-white hair and a deep blue uniform.

Hungary doesn’t know Prussia very well, to be honest. He and Austria do not get along, and neither do he and Poland. But he isn’t a bad man, and he knows how to command an army, and she appreciates all that he’s done for the nations in his care – the few times they’ve spent together, hunting or riding, she recalls with fondness. He certainly doesn’t deserve to have Wallachia hanging from his arm.

“That invitation was for Ludwig,” she hisses, as if Prussia could hear her from across the ballroom. “How the hell did you get it?”

“ _Language_ , Hungary, we’re in polite society.”

She's inclined to step on his foot again.  Or, more accurately, she's inclined to give him a nice bruise across the jaw, but she has a different reputation to maintain now.  “Answer the question.”

“Ludwig is so involved in his studies, you know,” Wallachia begins, his tone laced with regret. “He asked to stay home, and Prussia was already in Bucharest when he received word, so it was really the next logical step. He certainly didn’t want to come alone—“

That is a dirty lie. Prussia usually goes places alone, bringing only a couple of officers and whichever lieutenant he’s taken under his wing this time. He is at war with too many nations, he’d said once, to have someone he could readily call up to attend a party. Hungary often invites him to gatherings merely to make him feel included—not because he will actually come.

“—and we share a ruling house now, anyway,” Wallachia finishes, “it’s good for the public to see us getting along.”

Her skin crawls where his fingers lie as she considers the implications of this. The whole business with Romanian independence had been irritating and chaotic, and distracted from the more important situation of her marriage with Austria. But being a distraction is something that Prussia does, and she hadn’t been surprised that it took place on Romanian land.

However, a transfer of ruling parties doesn’t, in society, require much from the nations at hand other than a quick handshake and occasional dinner. Attending balls—especially where one party is not even invited—is certainly unnecessary.

He’s still smirking, a thin line of his teeth visible between his lips; the snagged one pokes out ever so slightly. But his eyes are guarded. Nausea seats itself in her throat.

When the music ends, she curtsies hastily and then pulls her hand from his, rubbing it on her dress. As the attendees applaud the orchestra, she mutters barely loud enough for him to hear, “This is the last ball you attend at my house, understand? Me and mine are not for your amusement.” She wants to add a note about Prussia, but barely holds herself back; twisting a hand in the silk of her gown, surely leaving creases in it. She doesn’t like this one anyway.

Wallachia holds up his hands up innocently, though he’s still smiling, eyes wide. “No amusement here, Hungary,” he assures her. “This is only business.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is slovenia canon yet? if they are, this was written before that.
> 
> the late 19th century was a momentous one for romania and hungary. romania had just won its independence from the ottoman empire, and hungary had risen from austrian vassal state to alleged co-ruler, forming the multi-ethnic austro-hungarian empire, which would last until the end of world war i. at this time hungary is still in possession of transylvania.
> 
>  
> 
> upon declaration of independence, the fledgling romanian government needed a monarch, and thus brought in [a minor prince](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carol_I_of_Romania) from the prussian house of hohenzollern. romania and prussia continued to be closely tied until the onset of the first world war.
> 
> the country was not called romania until years after independence, thus erzsebet still refers to him as _wallachia_ , his childhood name, in her head.


End file.
